


for the first time

by injo



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Andrew POV, Andrew is a writer, M/M, Neil is his editor, They go on a road trip, Writer AU, all the softness, not the first time you're thinking of, these boys just deserve a world where they fall in love and nothing hurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 23:24:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13868184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/injo/pseuds/injo
Summary: Andrew wielded his words like he wielded his knives: cutting, blithe, honed to a sharp point that cut through the bullshit of his thoughts to leave only spidery letters on a page. He wrote stories about fast cars and cruel men, hollow eyed youth and the sting of alcohol down your throat on a perfect winter’s day.****An AU where Andrew is a writer and Neil is his editor.





	for the first time

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to the lovely [Christine](http://c-dragon-pirates.tumblr.com/) for betaing <3

Andrew was sitting leant against the window sill in his apartment, idly running his fingers through King’s fur as the cat pillowed her head further into his lap. It was a sunny day, the kind that made his skin itch underneath his armbands and his fingers long for a fight or a tall glass of whiskey, neat.

Nowadays, they normally settled for the calming _click clack_ of typewriter keys. It was Bee who had first suggested he write, to give voice to the shadows that troubled him, to escape to another world where he had control.

Andrew wielded his words like he wielded his knives: cutting, blithe, honed to a sharp point that cut through the bullshit of his thoughts to leave only spidery letters on a page. He wrote stories about fast cars and cruel men, hollow eyed youth and the sting of alcohol down your throat on a perfect winter’s day.

He’d sent off his first manuscript on a whim to the Foxhole Court: a publishing house run by an idealistic fool called Wymack with an eye for good writing and a willingness to look past an adolescence spent in juvie. Andrew’s first two books had brought in enough income to cover his rent, so he could spend less time manning the bar at Eden’s Twilight and more time writing. 

Andrew had recently sent in the manuscript for his third book. This one had been different compared to the previous two. The words, which normally came as easily to him as the dance of his fists against Renee during their sparring sessions, had seemed to betray him.

Writing about abuse, with his perfect memory throwing up crystal clear likenesses of sensations and emotions, had been difficult. Writing sessions often ended in cigarettes shakily inhaled on the roof of his apartment building, falling back on his old tried-and-tested method of replacing the fear of one thing with the fear of another. But he’d finished it, and Andrew had enough self-awareness to admit that it was probably the best thing he’d written so far. There was a rawness within the words, a shred of vulnerability not present in any of his other books.

He’d almost not shared it at all, content to keep it buried in a pile of mostly unfinished pieces on his desk, until his editor Neil had found one of the earlier drafts and pounced. There were a lot of things Neil did that Andrew had noticed were distinctly feline in nature, from the way he cast his eyes warily upon strangers to the methodically savage way he tore through Andrew’s drafts.

His edits were always a bloodbath, Andrew’s work cut open and gutted with delicate precision. They often resulted in heated email arguments at two in the morning over whether the use of the oxford comma in a sentence was appropriate, afternoons spent in coffee shops debating the merits of the semicolon.

This last story however, had been taken home and followed with a previously unprecedented radio silence of two weeks, before Andrew had caved and called Neil.

“You,” Neil had said, his voice resigned.

“Me,” Andrew agreed.

“I can’t believe you weren’t going to show me this, Andrew. It’s what the world needs to be reading right now, a black mirror of truth when everyone else seems to be using the same tired tropes-”

Andrew cut him off before he could continue waxing his nonsense, sensing a tirade in the making.

“I don’t care. I don’t want it published.”

“Why not? Andrew, you must be able to see that this is some of your best work,” replied Neil.

“I don’t care,” Andrew repeated, getting up from his windowsill to light a cigarette. “This one is different. It wasn’t written to be shared, it’s not my fault you can’t keep your grubby fingers out of my things.”

Neil sighed down the phone, recognising the personal attack for the deflection it was.

“What do I have to do to convince you?” said Neil.

This silenced Andrew for a minute. Whenever Nicky or Aaron or Kevin came around for their visits - ostensibly to check whether Andrew was still alive, really to spoil the fur balls with too many treats - it was always a constant litany of demands. Smoke less, eat more greens, stop being a hermit.

Not one of them had offered anything substantial in return.

His and Aaron’s deal had been over since they’d graduated and Aaron had started med school. Kevin was still close, paying Andrew the occasional drunk visit when the memories of his nightmare dead brother Riko got to be too much. Kevin was an editor like Neil, but worked mainly in the Publisher’s YA and Sports wings closely with Wymack. Nicky and Erik also lived nearby, Nicky working for the Foxhole Court in translation and marketing.

“Convince Nicky to visit me less,” Andrew finally replied. “At this rate my cats will become obese and the medical bills will cripple me.”

Neil and Nicky had met at one of the Foxhole Court’s summer barbecues and for some reason got along well. If anyone could stop the weekly pop-ins, which Andrew only tolerated because they were normally accompanied by copious snacks, it was Neil.

“It’s a deal,” said Neil, not managing to hide the delight in his voice. Andrew hung up.

He knew that it had been understood that it was not what was traded that mattered, but the existence of the trade at all.

****

That conversation was six months ago now. The book had been through the editing wringer, Neil calling every week to discuss changes and grammar minutiae, marketing tactics and cover designs.

Andrew was currently on his way home from the gym, his weekly sparring session with Renee leaving him calm and steady, a contrast to when he had woken up shaking that morning from another nightmare. It was his second one this week, thoughts of his book having left him with several long buried memories brought close to the surface once again.

The ring tone warned him that it was Neil, and he answered the call with some annoyance at having his fragile calm threatened.

“Andrew?” said Neil’s voice over the car system.

“What is it?” said Andrew, taking a left onto Longwall Street. “I thought our weekly catch up sessions were on Monday; I’ve already done my time.”

He could hear the eye roll in Neil’s voice as he answered, “Well you get to hear from me again, lucky you. Listen, Wymack wants you to do a book tour -“ 

“No, absolutely not,” Andrew said, the street beginning to blur as he sped up considerably, the Maserati purring under him. “I write because because it’s a solitary activity, Neil. You know what book tours are not? Solitary.”

“Your fans want to meet you. Your first two books have quite the following, and the whole ‘mysterious author writing away in a forgotten attic’ shtick is getting old.”

“For how long? I have cats you know.”

“So give them to Kevin, you know he loves them. It will be five weeks - just the east coast. I’ve talked to Wymack: no flights anywhere and you can use your own car.” 

Andrew contemplated this for a minute. Wymack had wanted him to do a book tour for his previous two novels as well, and Andrew had steadfastly refused. He disliked crowds, too many variables, and he was sceptical that anyone would turn up anyway. However, he couldn’t deny the numbers anymore, his books had sold well, and he even sometimes got mail through his publishing house from people who had read his books― Andrew refused to call them ‘fans’. Wymack had been good to him as well, pushing his deadlines back when the insomnia was at its worst, and letting him keep Neil as his editor even when he jumped genres.

If nothing else, Andrew Minyard was a man who believed in reciprocation.

“Okay, I’ll agree to this on one condition.”

“What?”

“You’re coming with me.”

****

“All packed?” Neil said, looking annoying perky considering it was six in the morning and they had to drive for four hours to get from Columbia to Wilmington. 

“Evidently,” said Andrew, wheeling out his suitcase and opening the back of his car to stuff it in with Neil’s, which―

“Why is your suitcase orange?”

“Go Foxes?” Neil said sheepishly, as Andrew rolled his eyes at the mention of the local exy team Neil had previously confessed to being somewhat obsessed with.

The drive passed by in easy silence, Andrew tolerating Neil fiddling with the radio and ignoring his crooked eyebrow of amusement as he ordered just an ice cream sundae when they stopped for lunch. 

They got to the book shop just before eleven and by twelve, there was a decent crowd inside the shop, mainly hipster student types with big glasses and vintage clothes, clutching weathered copies of Andrew’s first two books.

The manager of the store made introductions and gestured to a raised platform with a chair for Andrew to do his reading from. Andrew settled in, not bothering with preamble as he opened the carefully bookmarked copy of his latest book and began to read the section he’d chosen earlier.

“The night was dark, the kind of dark that invited monsters to crouch in black corners and solemn secrets to be whispered between strangers…”

As he started, his voice a monotone and his eyes downcast, refusing to make eye contact with anyone in the crowd, Andrew tried to parse the emotions thrumming through him. Somehow the idea of freeing his words from the safe confines of the page into the open space of the book shop made him feel like they were no longer _his_ words at all. They suddenly belonged to the group of listeners around him, the listeners who he could hear had stilled in their fidgeting and shuffling. 

It was terrifying. To take ownership of these words he had written all those months ago, to share them with this crowd of strangers who he was likely never going to see again seemed absurd somehow, the intimacy far greater than anything he’d ever felt getting Roland off. But it was also cathartic. Each word making him feel lighter somehow, as if he had shed a heavy coat and he could now stretch unencumbered.

When Andrew had finished his chosen passage, he looked up, blinking as he was met with surprisingly enthusiastic applause. He was handed a pen by the manager and ushered to a desk with a stack of his books. At least this one wasn’t on a stage, and he watched as the strangers made an orderly queue and a girl around his age approached.

“Hi Andrew! Is it okay to call you Andrew? Do you prefer Mr. Minyard?” she asked, giving him a copy of his book and looking at him expectantly.

“Andrew is fine,” he said, pulling the book closer. It was the second one he’d written, the book obviously well-read and cared for, with tape holding the binding together in a couple of places and the pages so yellow they looked almost tea stained.

He signed the inside cover and handed the book back to the girl.

“I just wanted to tell you that I love your books. I’d take them with me as my only item to a deserted island any day. Thanks for doing what you do!” she said before blushing and turning on her heel to go.

One down, a whole queue’s worth more to go.

****

“How’s your hand?” Neil said after the signings were done and it was just them and the book shop workers left in the store.

“Fine, how’s yours?” Andrew said, lighting up a cigarette and trying to shake out his throbbing hand discreetly.

Neil rolled his eyes, choosing to ignore the comment before saying: “You made a lot of people’s days you know. By coming here, and doing what you did.”

“Exactly what I live for, nourishing the joy of others,” Andrew drawled, giving the workers a brief nod before exiting the store and heading to his car.

“You share what you write for a reason don’t you?” When Andrew didn’t reply, Neil continued.

“Writing for yourself I get, but publishing? You wouldn’t do that unless you want to make an audience feel something.”

“I do it to fund my smoking habit,” Andrew quipped back, sliding into the cool confines of the car as Neil took his seat on the other side.

“Sure you do,” Neil said, stealing Andrew’s cigarette and shooting Andrew an amused glance before cupping his hand around it and inhaling.

Andrew pulled out of his parking space, not bothering to answer.

****

Andrew quickly fell into the regular pattern of each of their stops. 

They’d go to some bookshop, normally in a town in the middle of nowhere, ‘to support the local shop owners’ was what Neil said. Andrew would give a reading; sometimes the beginning of his book, other times from closer to the middle, careful not to give too much away; and afterwards he’d sign books and mostly ignore attempts to make small talk until his wrist ached and his eye twitched from all the human interaction.

The in-between times amongst his tour stops grew to become much anticipated respites. Neil’s presence was soothing, a cool balm where the strangers’ company grated. They shared cigarettes, passed back and forth as Andrew drove, as well as quiet words in quiet diners. It was just logistical information at first: where they would be heading next and when, how Neil’s other pet writers were doing, whether the cats were behaving under Kevin’s care. But soon they discussed other things as well.

Andrew learnt more about his editor than he had ever cared to know before. About a life spent on the run before an unexpected FBI breakthrough, witness protection ever since. Andrew offered little things in return. Stories about juvie and foster care, never anything substantial but more than he’d ever said to anyone else in a while.

There was just something about Neil. Something that made heat pool in his gut whenever Neil would bite his full lips absentmindedly while in the car, or run his hands through his fiery auburn hair. Something held Andrew back from acting.

The easy calm they had created between themselves seemed fragile somehow, and Andrew didn’t want to be the one to break it.

****

It was the middle of the third week and Andrew could feel himself flagging. The book shops and the people in them had begun to blur into one indistinguishable haze and he felt weary. Andrew missed his cats and the quiet stillness of his apartment. The hotel rooms were uninspiring, lifeless back drops whenever he tried to write.

Neil seemed to have picked up on his restless energy. With no Renee to channel his more destructive tendencies, Andrew had taken to doing weights in the hotel gyms in the evenings, Neil sometimes joining him on the treadmill. Andrew tried not to let his eyes linger too much on a sweaty, out of breath Neil, ignoring the taller man as he continued with his free weights. He pushed himself until his muscles burned and he could feel a tingle when he stretched.

Just two more weeks to go after all.

****

Their next stop was New York. However, inside the book shop, instead of the regular stage and desk setup, there was something different

“What’s this?” asked Andrew, eyes landing on the bottles on Johnnie Walker and tubs of Ben & Jerry’s placed on tables across the room.

There were balloons next to the tables, and cosy looking bean-bags with strangers sitting on them: some drinking and eating, others chatting quietly amongst themselves, all holding copies of his latest book. It seemed more intimate than the previous gatherings. Softer somehow too.

“It’s a party? To celebrate?” replied Neil, scratching the back of his neck in what Andrew had come to realise was a nervous tick, “You don’t have to do a reading or anything. All of the people here balloted for a chance to just see you.”

Andrew went to a nearby table and poured himself a measure of whiskey, noticing the Gold label with grudging appreciation. The people in the beanbags seemed to have noticed their arrival, however instead of immediately swarming they seemed content to finish their conversations, occasionally shooting Andrew interested glances.

“What are we celebrating?” Andrew said, taking a sip of the whiskey and wrinkling his nose slightly as Neil picked up a carton of strawberry sorbet from behind the obviously superior Ben & Jerry pile.

Neil grinned before pulling a ripped-out page from a newspaper from his pocket, straightening it out carefully before presenting it to Andrew. It was the New York Times’ Best Sellers list, and right at the top, inked in irrefutable black next to number one was Andrew Minyard and his latest book.

***** 

“So what are you going to do now that you’re a best-selling author?” asked Neil, leaning forward to steal some of Andrew’s fries as they sat in another diner. The party had been nice, if a bit socially exhausting, the people there eventually working up the nerve to finally approach Andrew and ask him about his influences, his process for writing, and other now familiar questions.

He was eased through it all by Neil, the taller man never leaving his side as he circulated through the crowd, fielding questions that cut a bit too close to the bone. Andrew now knew where Neil had learnt to dodge probing questions so effortlessly, though it was strange to think of the man in front of him as a past liar and runaway.lying runaway the man in front of him must once have been.

“Maybe I’ll stop writing. I’ve probably peaked after all.” Andrew said, watching Neil’s reaction as all traces of mirth were replaced by a look of dismay.

“Did Maya Angelou peak after she wrote ‘I know why the caged bird sings’? Did Stephen King after ‘Carrie’? Just because you have a best seller doesn’t mean-”

“Relax, I have a couple of ideas I’m working on for my next book,” Andrew ignored the sigh of relief this elicited from Neil, and took another bite of his burger.

****

They received more sizable crowds after the New York Times’ Bestseller list went out, but Neil limited the number of people who could stay for signings and reading to a bigger audience didn’t seem to be too much harder. The words came more easily to Andrew now, as he got used to the shape of them in his mouth and the sound of them in the open air.

The remaining couple of weeks seemed to unexpectedly go by in fast forward, each book shop blending seamlessly into the next until they were suddenly on their way home to Columbia. Andrew chose to take the scenic route for the sheer relief of driving when there was no place to go besides home.

Andrew drove Neil to his apartment first, a nondescript grey building about fifteen minutes on the other side of town. They pulled up but Neil didn’t get out. When Andrew glanced over he could see that Neil’s jaw was set and he was looking straight ahead, a determined look in his eyes.

“Are you going to-” Andrew’s words were cut off as Neil leaned over the console and pressed his lips to Andrew’s, a brief touch before he pulled back again quickly.

“I just-” It was Andrew’s turn to interrupt as he placed his hand over Neil’s mouth, holding his gaze as he moved closer, forward until his lips were a hair breadths away from his own hand. Andrew contemplated Neil for a moment, noting that his eyes had softened and his breathing had quickened, warm against the palm of his hand,

“Yes or no?” Andrew said, breathing softly.

“Yes,” Neil replied. Andrew replaced his hands with his lips, kissing Neil the only way he knew how – all consuming and searing, letting the heat that had built up over the last few weeks’ bleed through until they were breathless and panting into each other’s mouths. 

Kissing Neil felt like the rush from standing at the edge of his apartment roof, a swoop low in his stomach that made his hands tighten into fists and pupils dilate. But it felt familiar too, and safe somehow, their kisses in the darkened car carving out a new story in the world that existed just for them.

Neil had made no move to touch him, his lips their only point of contact as they moved to graze Andrew’s jaw and then his neck. Andrew unclenched his fists and exhaled shakily.

“Do you want to come up?” Neil murmured against his ear lobe, his lips following the curve of Andrew’s ear before he pulled back and looked at Andrew. Andrew reached out with two fingers and turned his head with a touch to Neil’s chin, unable to keep looking at the mix of hope and heat in his eyes.

“Yes,” Andrew said.

****

It was about 2am and Andrew could just make out the soft rise and fall of Neil’s chest in the dark as he slept. Sleep was evading Andrew. It had been a while since he’d shared a bed with someone, and the gentle warmth radiating from the other side of the mattress was a confusing mixture of uncomfortable and reassuring.

His fingers itched for his typewriter as they were always wont to do when he was in emotional turmoil. Andrew settled for the next best thing, leaning over the edge of the bed to pick up his phone where it was still tucked away in the pocket of his jeans. He had been tapping away for about half an hour; just half formed ideas centring around a smart mouthed protagonist with far too many scars and wild, fire lit hair; when he felt Neil shift beside him.

“Can’t sleep?” he heard Neil mutter into the dark, the light from his phone catching Neil’s eyes and making them seem an unnaturally bright shade of blue.

“Something like that,” Andrew replied, finishing his sentence before dropping his phone back on the floor and turning to face Neil. His fingers reached out slowly, and after a nod from Neil twined in his auburn hair, pulling him gently forward for a kiss.

Andrew had never believed in happily ever after’s: not for his books, not for himself. But for the first time, something about the warmth of Neil’s sleepy kisses gave him reason to hope.

**Author's Note:**

> so this was my first time doing creative writing for about six years? boy is it hard, all the respect to people who do this a lot and not just as a way to procrastinate uni essays. feel free to let me know what you think :) 
> 
> I can be found on tumblr [here](https://injosblog.tumblr.com/)


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